I see you with your mother. I’m jealous. I don’t want to be, but I am.
Pieces of my heart are so incredibly happy for you, but other pieces ache with jealousy.
My mother is gone. She’s dead. Buried at a cemetery, and gone forever from my future. Sounds harsh because it is.
I see you making memories, taking pictures, and enjoying life together. I’m not proud to admit, but I’m jealous. I’m envious of your ability to make new memories with your mother.
I wish I could do the same.
I see you appreciating the help, advice, and expertise of your mother. I have admiration for you and the fact you have that opportunity. I have jealousy that I no longer do.
Grief is loss and pain.
Grief is love.
Grief is also jealousy.
It’s an ache for the mother I lost and the moments stolen from me. It’s jealousy in all the motherly moments around me. The ones I used to have. The ones I used to be blessed with too. It’s being filled with both joy and jealousy watching you with your mother, happy and loved.
I miss that relationship.
I miss that care.
I miss that love and influence.
I miss my mother, which is why I find myself jealous of yours and the adventures you still share.
I’m not proud to have a heart that includes jealousy, but I do.
I don’t want to steal your sunshine or rob you of your blessings. I simply want them too.
Grief’s jealousy is noticing mothers everywhere I go. It’s noticing the absence and emptiness I hold in my heart and mind. This kind of jealousy is really just missing what I once had and desperately wanting it back.
Grief’s jealousy is found in the moments that bring me to my knees, crying, and wishing I resembled you. The you who has a mother.
I’m ashamed to house jealousy. But I do.
I acknowledge it, even though it’s humiliating and embarrassing, because this type of jealousy is unique.
It’s built on love and created by counting blessings. One you still have that I lost years ago.
Grief is loss, and pain, and emptiness, and sometimes, jealousy.
I see you with your mother. I watch with tears.
You are blessed, friend. You have your mother.
I wish I had my mother, too.
Previously published on the author’s blog